


Something for Himself

by shadow_lover



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Character Study, Chess, Drinking, Extra Treat, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen steals a moment away from his duties with a chessboard, a bottle of wine, and an entrancing Tevinter mage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something for Himself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [achilleees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/gifts).



> Happy Halloween :)

They sat cross-legged on the floor of Cullen’s loft and played, with a bottle of Antivan red to keep them warm from the draft. Some days Cullen missed the gardens, missed the sunlight along the back of Dorian’s hand as he reached for a piece, but after the events at Halamshiral, a bedroom was the only place they had a chance of playing undisturbed. He feared that too would change, next month or the next. Someone always wanted him, needed him, and he had overcome far too much to start refusing now.

In the flicker of torchlight, though, he could ask something for himself. A moment of leisure, he told himself. A distraction. Nothing more.

“If I win this game,” said Cullen, reaching across the chessboard for the bottle, “you have to shave off your mustache.”

He expected horror, feigned or true. Mock outrage, a hand flung to exposed curve of bronze chest, vehement refutations. Something, perhaps, to tease him for later, if Cullen dared.

Instead, Dorian laughed low and dark, and leaned forward. “As you wish, Commander,” he said, and before this night Cullen had never heard a man _purr_ like that. His voice was soft as his fingers plucking the bottle back from Cullen’s grasp. “But if I win, you lose your shirt.”

A distraction. Nothing more. He ought to say no. But the wine was warm as dark eyes, and perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to give a little more.

“You can use my razor,” he challenged, and Dorian just laughed again.

As he moved his rook across the board, Cullen wondered if there were sorceries cast through laughter, for one peal to so entrance him. 

He lost only four rounds later. A child’s mistake—and he felt like a boy, new to his vows, drunk on lyrium and a sense of purpose, only beginning to warm to the wonders of the world when he had sworn to give them up.

He stood, unsteady, and reached to unlace his shirt. But Dorian was standing too, bright as a torch, and warm hands were staying his own. That smirk could set a nun to blushing, but his hands were soft and his eyes uncertain. Only when Cullen gave a shaky nod did Dorian move again to slowly pull at the laces. To trace suggestions through the thin cotton.

“No, no,” said Dorian, leaning close, so his lips brushed hot along the shell of Cullen’s ear. “I said you’d lose your shirt. I never said you’d take it off yourself.”


End file.
